The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (17 page)

Ana holds me, quietly sobbing. And there's not a
thing I can do to make things better.

I used to believe in happy endings. I used to buy into the Technicolor happily ever after. No matter how grim things look, Indiana Jones will always defeat the Nazis. Han and Lando will blow up the Death Star, and John McClane will wisecrack the terrorists to death. I always believed that.

Until Dad got sick. Then I realized it was all happy Hollywood horseshit.

Like right now, for instance. I've been blacklisted from Washingcon, and the girl that I was really starting
to like, the girl who was way out of my league but who was still kind of into me, is going to be killed by her parents.

All too soon, Ana disengages her face from my chest. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her cloak, an action that is somehow incredibly sweet.

“Zak? You said you could find us a ride?”

Ah, back to the cold, humorless outside world. I've been banished, and we have to leave.

“Yeah, he gets up at four thirty, he can probably get here by six.”

“Do you want to wait in the parking lot? I don't want to run into any security guards.”

Waiting outside in the cold for three hours. That sounds like a downer. But she's right, we need to get out of here. Unless . . .

They probably wouldn't think to look for us
there
. And it beats hanging around in the cold and dark.

“Ana? Since it's my last night here, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to . . .”

“To what?”

“Wanna filk?”

Puff the magic maggot lived in the trash . . .

There are about forty of us crammed into a tiny conference room. Half the people hold guitars. Every person has a beer, a flagon, a plastic cup, or some other drinking vessel. The room is almost hazy with the stench of alcohol. The wooden veneer of the conference table has started to warp and bubble from spilled drinks. That minister from the wedding is passed out in the seat across from me. If it wasn't for the occasional puffs of smoke from his pipe, I'd worry that he wasn't breathing.

Everyone is singing. Zak tells me “filking” is kind of a folk song circle, an old con tradition. And though I don't
recognize a single tune, every person here knows all the lyrics. Of course.

Duquette stands in the hall, a finger in his ear, talking to someone on his phone. I'm getting kind of annoyed at him for dragging me to this place. Then I remember how, because of me, this will be his last night here ever. I can't blame him for wanting to have a little bit of fun before we leave.

Though I kind of wish we were spending these last few hours alone. Just him and me.

Zak pockets his phone and joins me. “He'll be by around six.”

“Who?”

He's not listening. At least not to me. A guy, who must weigh four hundred pounds, is belting out a dirty, double-entendre song, and Zak is paying attention to him. Everyone is paying attention to him. He's fat, hairy, and ugly, and he has more friends than I ever will.

“Duquette!” I snap.

“Sorry.” His grin vanishes as he remembers how much trouble we're in. Or at least that he's not supposed to be having a good time right now.

“Ana, you want to leave?” There's no whining in his voice—he sounds generally concerned.

“We don't have to.”

“Ah, it's noisy in here. There's a Denny's across the
way. I'll buy you a cup of something.”

His last night here ever, his last couple of hours at the con, and he's willing to leave early, just because he can tell I'm uncomfortable.

But then again, this may be our last chance to be alone together for a while. I'd rather spend that time at an all-night diner than listening to these strangers singing about their fetishes.

“Thanks, Zak.”

We stand. He takes my arm. I can't decide if that's sweet or annoying.

Just before we reach the door, the fat guy finishes his routine. “Hey, Duke! Duke, you ain't leaving us, are you?” He has a British accent, which I'm pretty sure is false.

“Um . . .” Zak points to me, himself, and the door.

“Duke! Not without a song! C'mon!”

And soon, the entire room is clamoring. “Duke! Duke! Duke!”

He looks sheepishly at me.

“Go on, Zak.”

He smiles at me with gratitude, and we return to the room. I sit down next to a round-faced girl with glasses and a Sherlock Holmes hat.

“Have you heard Duke sing before? He's hilarious.”

I shake my head. I've seen Zak do a lot more than
sing tonight, which makes me unique among this crowd. Then again, he's only really known me for one weekend. For all I know, tonight was just another crazy con for him.

He strolls to the center of the room and takes the mic from the human blimp. Everyone applauds. Zak grins. That same smile I like, but it's directed at everyone. His people.

“So who here's from out of town?” For some reason, everybody cracks up.

Everyone gets the inside jokes here. Except me
.

“Doug, did they let you out early? Hey, Hope, looking good!”

Sherlock girl ducks her head and giggles. I find her irritating.

After working the crowd for a little bit, Duquette breaks into song. And right away, it's obvious he can't sing. I mean, he just doesn't have the voice. He's singing “Piano Man,” but with different parody words, and he doesn't come anywhere close to the key or the beat. It's terrible.

But no one seems to notice. Because he's funny. He's at ease. He's popular.

And right then I realize that despite all that happened tonight, he's going to land on his feet. This may be his favorite con, but there are others he goes to. And
in a couple of years, someone else will be doing Warren's job, and all will be forgiven. Zak will come back and be kissing some other girl and telling her how special she is.

Zak slowly circles the room, glad-handing the guys, winking at the girls. He doesn't look at me.

The song ends and his flunkies cheer again. A bra flies from the audience and Zak grabs it. I would have been so pissed off if a woman had thrown it.

I irritably pluck the string of my bow, waiting for him to be done. He tries to return the microphone, but fatso just shoves it back. A guy with a synthesizer on his lap strikes a chord. The audience cheers. They all break into a fast-paced song, with different sections of the crowd singing the catchphrases of various
Star Trek
characters. Zak runs the whole show, of course. His face is split in a joyous grin. He's completely forgotten about Clayton, the cocaine, the quiz bowl, the Viking . . . and me.

“And now the guys: HE'S DEAD, JIM!”

This will be Duquette's life. Forever. He'll get some kind of tech support job and go to cons like this every weekend. He'll live with his mom until he finally blows up at Roger and moves into an apartment. He'll keep dating geek girls until he marries some chick named Moonbeam, gains a hundred pounds, and takes over Warren's job.

He'll never have an ounce of responsibility, but he'll still live happily ever after.

“And now the ladies: BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY!”

Not me, though. I'll spend all summer paying for this one night. Even though Duquette's right, this stupid night is all Clayton's fault. I haven't done anything wrong. Except for possessing cocaine.

“This side of the room: FIRE PHOTON TORPEDOES!”

And I'll go to college, and study every night, and get some kind of job that requires eighty hour weeks and lots of meetings. I'll rarely see Nichole and Clayton. I'll marry some good-looking, safe guy and have two kids. I'll make my parents proud. I'll never go to one of these stupid conventions again.

Never see Zak again.

“Now this side: THAT'S HIGHLY ILLOGICAL!”

Because that's the way the world works, isn't it? You can work hard and be miserable, or do nothing and be happy. I wish I'd realized that before I wasted all those years on the former.

“BOLDLY GO!”

The song ends, with everyone in the room laughing. Duquette still isn't looking at me. I stand up, grab my bow, and head for the door. I need some air.

Sherlock girl, who was standing during the last song, blocks my way. “Don't go yet!”

I attempt to shove past her.

“Hey, you have to give us a song first! It's the rules. C'mon . . .” She checks my badge. “Ana.”

Duquette has materialized at my side. “Not tonight, Hope.” He attempts to edge past her.

“Hey, one song!” yells Doug, the fat guy.

“Not now!” I growl. Zak winces.

Everyone starts booing me. Why are people booing me? Why is nothing I do ever good enough? I have to leave.

“Hey, hang on. You owe us a tune. How about the ‘Peanut Butter Jelly' song?”

“‘Peanut Butter Jelly!'” squeals the crowd. Someone begins to pound on the table. “‘Peanut Butter Jelly!'”

They remind me of a bunch of shrieking mental patients. I want nothing so much as to leave this building, to stand out on the cold night air and to get away from this insanity. I make for the door.

“C'mon, Ana,” says Hope. “Live a little. Don't you want to have fun for once?”

That does it. I turn and walk back to the table. The filkers begin to cheer. I smile briefly, grab the edge of the table, and shove it forward. It crashes to the floor in
a rain of sheet music, drinks, and costume accessories.

The room falls silent.

I step over the collapsed table, march past Duquette and out of the room.

They're going to be talking about that at Washingcon
for years now. One minute Ana is sitting there all quiet and sad, the next minute she's throwing stuff like a Little League dad.

What the hell was I thinking, taking her there? She obviously needed to be somewhere quiet, less stressful. And what in Dobbs's name was I doing, singing like that? I might as well have told her I didn't care that she was upset.

L'esprit de l'escalier
.

I had to stay in the filk room for a few minutes, to apologize and help pick up. Fortunately, nothing was
broken and most everyone found the incident to be more funny than not. Actually, I was the only one who was really worried.

Ana will probably never speak to me again. Why the hell didn't I take her to Denny's? Why do I always screw everything up? Why didn't I write that stupid health paper in the first place?

My phone sings. Praise Zeus, it's a text from Ana.

IN THE BACK PARKING LOT.

On the other side of the complex, of course. I rush through acres of halls, hoping to reach Ana before she does anything else psycho.

The lot is empty, except for some employees' cars. It's raining again, lightly but steadily.

“Ana?”

“Over here, Zak.”

I'm horrified to see her lying, spread-eagled, on the asphalt, her bow propped against a trash can. I rush over, fearful that something horrible has happened.

Ana stares up at me with a big grin. Her cloak is wet with rainwater. She waves her arms and legs. “I'm making gravel angels!” she squeals, in an almost babylike voice. “Join me!”

Uh-oh. She's flipped. Lost it. I've heard about this. Sometimes a smart kid just suddenly snaps and goes nuts. I have to get her back inside.

“Oh, stop freaking out,” she says, in a normal tone. “I'm fine.”

She doesn't get up, though. Unsure of what else to do, I squeeze between the cars and lay down opposite her, the tops of our heads almost touching. The ground is hard and wet. Water drips into my face and runs into my ears.

Much to my surprise, Ana lifts her head, scoots back, and rests it on my shoulder. I do the same thing to her. We're using each other as a pillow. The rain no longer runs into my nose, and the parking lot isn't so uncomfortable.

“Ana? You okay?”

“I don't want to discuss it.”

“Don't, Ana. Talk to me. I think I've earned that.”

There's a long silence, broken only by the steady, monotonous drizzle.

“You really want to know what's bothering me?”

I nod into her shoulder.

“Okay. When I was five I asked Santa for a puppy and got a Barbie instead. When I was eight, Nichole got a new bike and I had to ride her old one. Clayton has been pulling that cutesy Boy Wonder routine for years, and I'm sick of it. I have no real friends. I spent two months campaigning for a congressman who I thought was big into education and after he was elected, he votes to slash school
funding. Nichole keeps telling me I'll develop, and here I am at eighteen and I'm only an A-cup. I'm not allowed to drive or even leave the house without an itinerary. Mr. Klein wrote me a letter of recommendation for college, but it was bland and noncommittal. I almost got arrested tonight, and you go off and karaoke, you butthead. It's raining. Everyone wants to spell my first name with two Ns. It's the twenty-first century and most of the world lives in poverty. And my brother is still missing.”

I lay there, taking all this in.

“Just an A-cup? Really?”

“Duquette!”

“Sorry.” A pause. “But none of that's what's really freaking you out.”

She suddenly sits up, causing my head to fall to the ground with a painful crash. “No, Zak. What really bothers me is I never do anything fun, never do anything for myself. And maybe I can't lay that all on my parents, you know? And in a couple of months . . . forget it.”

I sit up and face her. “No, what?”

We're sitting there, cross-legged, staring at each other in the drizzle. “It doesn't matter. I don't own you.”

What did she mean by that? “Ana, I can't read your mind. Just say it.”

Ana waves her hands around, as if trying to mold an abstract thought into words.

“Zak, in a few months we'll both be going off to different schools.”

Unbelievable. I'm getting the breakup talk in the middle of our first date
.

“And even if I find a way out of the insanity with my family, you'll still be here with all your buddies and your cons, and all your little girlfriends.”

“My what?”

Her green eyes bore into me. “Strawberry, Gypsy, some chick from the filk circle. And I'm sure there are others.”

Maybe one or ten, but I know better than to bring that up
. “Ana, what's that got to do with anything?”

She gives me the sad smile of someone delivering unpleasant news. “I don't belong here, Zak. I don't fit in. Tonight was special, but I know you'd have had more fun with—”

She's going loopy on me again. I make the rash decision to share a memory I've almost completely repressed. “Ana, a couple of months ago I ran into Gypsy at the movies. She was with some friends. When I said hi, she pretended not to know me. Just acted like I was some weirdo she'd never met. And if it hadn't been for you, I still would have danced with her tonight. I'm that pathetic. Trust me, I'm glad I was with you. I had a wonderful time.”

She laughs out loud. “No, you didn't.”

“You're right. This was hellish. Worst con ever. And it's your fault. But I'm still happy you came.”
Tone it down, Duke
. “I mean, yesterday I thought you were this stuck-up ice queen. I'm glad I got to see this side of you.”

Fortunately, she laughs. “Yeah, well, I always thought you were a brain-damaged slacker.”

“Maybe we were both right.”

She takes both my hands in hers. “No, we were both wrong.”

I so want to kiss her right then, but I can't bring myself to end the moment.

“Zak, thanks for a memorable night.”

“I, um, hope it's not the last. If we go out again, I promise less drugs and violence.”

“Deal. Of course, tomorrow we're both dead.” She smiles sadly.

“That's the logical prediction. But my theory is that things can't possibly get any worse for us. We're going to get through this. Watch.”

“That's a pretty improbable theory, Zak.”

“Doesn't mean it can't happen.”

She lets go of my hands. “Where's the nearest ladies' room?”

“Um, through the handicap entrance there.”

Ana stands, pats my head, and collects her bow. Just
then, her phone rings. She glances at it.

“Mrs. Brinkham.” She then turns off her phone . . . all the way off. “You coming, Zak?”

“In a minute. And call me Duke.”

She starts for the building. “Hey, Zak, I'm sorry about freaking out back there. It was a long time coming. Hope no one was too mad.”

“Ana, you wigged out over the ‘Peanut Butter Jelly' song. Congratulations. You're one of us now. You'll get your Spock ears in the mail.”

She leaves with a big smile on her face. I watch her until she's safely inside, then lean against a Nissan. Maybe she actually will want to see me again. And maybe we'll find Clayton and make it back safely. And her parents won't be too mad. Or Mrs. Brinkham.

Maybe.

I suddenly realize I'm not alone. There's a guy standing near me, staring. This must be his car.

“Sorry, I—” I look at him. He's a tall, scruffy-looking guy of about forty. He's wearing a flannel shirt and the ghost of a smile. And he has a gun. A revolver. He's pointing it at me. And while there are lots of phony pistols at Washingcon, this one looks really, really . . . real.

“Hello,” I say, for lack of body armor.

“Hello,” he replies in a lazy, friendly voice. He levels the gun. “I believe you have something of mine.”